


Romantic Things You Said While Concussed

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: College, Concussions, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Love Confessions, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21896299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Matt comes back to the dorm room with a head injury and spills all his secrets. Foggy listens, like he always does.For the prompt: "In college era, Matt goes out one night and gets a concussion. In a daze, he gets back to their room and wakes up Foggy. At some point, in an effort to keep him awake, Foggy keeps asking questions and Matt's secrets are revealed."
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 519
Collections: DDE’s 2020 New Year’s Day Exchange





	Romantic Things You Said While Concussed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripedScribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripedScribe/gifts).



> I had so much fun with this, the prompt was an absolute delight! Hopefully you can forgive me for deviating slightly, haha - Foggy is not asleep at the beginning, but otherwise, I think I got very close! :)

Matt stays out late some nights, and Foggy— worries, of course he worries. But Matt also always finds himself home safe and sound on those nights. Plus he’s guaranteed to shut down completely at any sentiment that even hints that he might not be able to take care of himself. So, Foggy tries to, you know, _let it go_. Be zen.

It is very hard to be zen when your usually-unflappable roommate stumbles through the door, knocking his shoulder hard on the frame, with blood dripping into his eyes, grabs you by the shoulders even though you haven’t said anything yet and he has no way of knowing you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed instead of lying down or sitting at your desk, and informs you with a calm expression that he has a concussion.

“Matt, what the _fuck_ ,” Foggy says, because that’s about the only thing he can think of — _what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck_.

“‘S ok,” Matt insists, slurring the words, which is worrisome because Matt pretty much always speaks crisply, enunciates with what feels like a lot of consideration — probably to cover up the accent that would give him away as a working-class Hell’s Kitchen boy.

“It is definitely not ok, dude, what the fuck— We, we’ve gotta get you to the hospital—”

“No!” Matt’s grip on Foggy's shoulders goes tight, painful. “No, Foggy, no. No hospitals.”

The look on his face is frantic, and it’s only then that Foggy realizes that Matt’s glasses are gone. His eyes don’t track, of course, but they’re very expressive — it makes him much easier to read, being able to see them.

“Ok,” Foggy soothes, just barely keeping a lid on his own panic for his roommate’s sake. “Ok, no hospital, but how about a clinic or something? You’re bleeding all your brains out here, Matt, you need someone with a medical degree.”

Matt’s mouth turns down and his eyebrows scrunch.

“Head wounds always bleed a lot,” he insists, like that’s actually a comforting thing to say and not another tiny window into Matt Murdock’s Horrifying and Tragic Backstory.

Nonetheless, sending Matt into some kinda panic attack by insisting he go to like, a real actual doctor isn’t something Foggy’s prepared to deal with either.

“Ok, Matt, just. You sit down here and— _don’t move_ ,” he says, standing and guiding Matt to sit down in his place, “and I’ll go get something to, to clean off your face, I guess.”

 _Sterile_ , he thinks wildly, but they’re two nineteen year old boys crammed into a small space, there’s probably nothing sterile in their entire room. Still, he just did laundry, his washcloths have got to be pretty clean, right? He snags one and runs to the shared bathroom to get it wet, and manages to catch their RA Jason on the way back, who thankfully has a first aid kit that he lets Foggy borrow.

First order of business is wiping the excess blood off Matt’s face, being careful not to touch the gash itself. That’s at least starting to clot over so there isn’t another waterfall of blood to worry about mopping up. It’s pretty ugly-looking, though. Foggy’s not sure whether to clean it with peroxide and slap a bandage over it, or if he’s going to need to drag Matt to a nurse anyway to get it sewn up — because there is no way in hell Foggy’s doing that himself.

“It doesn’t need stitches,” Matt says when Foggy admits his dilemma aloud, with a concerning amount of confidence.

“You’re a menace, Murdock,” mutters Foggy, “and I cannot believe I’m listening to you about this.”

Still, peroxide and bandages it is. Because Foggy Nelson is an absolute god damn sucker, and because Matt immediately soothes at his acquiescence in a way that makes him feel like he did the right thing. Only time will tell if that‘s the case.

“Anything... Anything else?” he asks when he’s done because, well, who knows — Matt could be hiding broken ribs or something under his too-big hand-me-down sweater.

Instead of answering, Matt smushes his face against the side of Foggy’s neck, nuzzling his nose against it and taking huffing breaths at Foggy’s pulse point. This is about twenty times more touchy-feely than Matt ever acts except when drunk, so Foggy thinks his concern is reasonable.

“Matt,” he repeats firmly. “Come on, bud, you gotta use your words. What else do you need?”

“Nothing. ‘s good now. You just gotta keep me awake, that’s all,” Matt mumbles, still rubbing his stubbly cheek against Foggy’s throat like an affectionate kitten.

“Kinda hard to tell when you’re all up in my grill like that,” Foggy points out, mostly because it’s true but also a little bit because getting turned on by your very handsome and uninterested roommate’s loopy snuggling when you’re supposed to be watching over him is not ok.

With a heavy sigh, Matt pulls away and sits back so he’s in clear view again.

“My head hurts,” he complains.

Matt... Pretty much never says that he's hurting, physically or emotionally, even when it’s obviously bad enough to bother him. So the fact that he's admitting to being a mortal human who experiences pain could mean _this_ pain is particularly bad. Or it could mean Matt’s knock on the head has temporarily deprived him of his filter. Foggy feels pretty safe saying that it's the latter, though, since Matt’s other telltale ‘I’m in agonizing pain but too stubborn to admit it’ signs — clenching his jaw, tense shoulders, a pale face — haven’t presented themselves.

“That’s what happens when you go out and get it cracked open like an egg, buddy,” he says, instead of the hundreds of other much less chill things he’d like to say. “Do you want some painkillers? I think the first aid kit’s got Tylenol. And aspirin, but you’re not allowed to have that because I’m pretty sure it’s super bad for when you’re bleeding or something.”

“Learned something in that Health elective after all, huh,” Matt jokes with a dizzy smile, then holds out a hand, palm up. “Tylenol?”

Foggy shakes a couple pills out into Matt’s waiting palm and then has to stall him with a hand around his wrist before he attempts to swallow them dry like a moron.

“I’m getting you a bottle of water for those, you savage, just hold on.”

Though he scrunches his faces little and pouts, Matt does wait for Foggy to pull a bottle of water out of their tiny dorm fridge, crack the top, and nudge it against his knuckles so he can grab it. As soon as he has the bottle in hand, Matt tosses back the pills and chugs them down with two swallows of water. Foggy definitely doesn’t watch his throat and definitely doesn’t have Feelings about it. Really.

“‘m tired,” Matt mumbles afterwards, twisting the cap back into the half-empty water bottle and flopping back on Foggy’s bed. “Foggy. Keep me awake. You promised.”

He didn’t, actually, but Matt’s his best friend so the promise is kind of implied. He’s just not sure the best way to keep it. If they were studying and trying to pull an all-nighter, he’d whap Matt with a pillow, but he’s not willing to do that when Matt’s all beat up.

“Come on, Matt, let’s play Truth or Dare, ok? That’ll keep you awake, huh?” Foggy says, taking Matt’s free hand and hauling him back to a sitting position; even to his own ears his voice sounds strained.

“I don’t like truth,” Matt replies mulishly, and all Foggy can do is bark out a laugh.

“Yeah, buddy, I know.”

“But I like you, Foggy.”

Oh, jeez. This guy. How’s anybody supposed to react to that sweet, earnest tone?

“I like you too,” Foggy manages past the ridiculous lump of emotion clogging up his throat.

“Truth,” Matt murmurs.

But the way he’s saying it isn’t like a choice. Foggy gets the feeling Matt still hasn’t capitulated to acting like middle schoolers and playing Truth or Dare. It’s more like... Like he’s evaluating the truth of what Foggy said. But Foggy’s not really ready to confront that, so he plays dumb.

“Truth it is — no take backsies. So... How about you start with what happened tonight,” Foggy suggests as delicately as he can. “How did you get hurt?”

“Beat up a rapist,” Matt explains, without hesitation despite his usual distaste for volunteering information about himself, and he sounds pleased.

Foggy’s brain crashes into a twenty-four-car-pileup halt.

“You fought somebody? Matt, you could have gotten killed, Jesus Christ—”

Matt’s smile goes... Odd. It shuffles through a tilt that looks indulgent and fond before settling into a lazy, predatory curl that sends a shiver down Foggy’s spine.

“He got in a lucky hit, I’m out of practice,” admits Matt. “But he’s a hell of a lot worse off than me.”

“Practice,” Foggy repeats faintly, because seriously, what?

He knows about the boxing thing. He’d have to be an idiot not to know about the boxing thing, and even more of an idiot to mention knowing about it because it’s definitely got something to do with Matt’s dead dad and that’s a topic so radioactive Foggy’s not sure Matt’ll _ever_ be up to talk about it.

But. The point is, hitting a punching bag is way different than fighting an actual person, especially someone looking to hurt you. Who you can’t see, by the way, because _you’re fucking blind_. Every possible explanation gets more outlandish and horrifying — because who the hell would be fighting a blind orphan kid on such a regular basis that he could ever be ‘in practice’ at brawling?

“What kind of practice?” Foggy asks, when it’s been almost a minute and Matt still hasn’t elaborated.

Matt opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He swallows once, twice.

“Um. It’s your turn,” he says hurriedly, trying for that ‘sweet innocent blind Matt Murdock who has never done anything wrong in his life’ smile and not quite pulling it off due to the bandage at his temple. “Truth or dare, Fogs?”

Foggy’s not impressed by this less-than-masterful sidestep, but he obliges.

“Truth.”

Matt’s quiet, contemplative, for a few seconds. He squeezes the bottled water between his hands and the cheap plastic crackles under his grip.

“Where did you really go last Thursday, when you said you had a study group with Marci?”

 _Turnabout_ , Foggy thinks faintly, _is fair play, huh_. It doesn’t _feel_ fair though. And how does Matt even know that he hadn’t been with Marci?

“I had a date,” Foggy admits. “With Larry Cranston.”

“And you didn’t wanna tell me?”

Matt’s expression is wide-eyed and hurt. Foggy groans.

“No, it’s not— _ugh_.” Pressing his hands to his face, he groans again. “I just... I dunno. He asked me and I said yes and it was _weird_ , and anyway it’s not happening again because he spent like the whole time bitching about you. Like. The _whole_ time. So yeah, he’s mad jealous of you about pretty much everything apparently. I... I would’ve told you, if there was any chance it’d turn into something serious but... There wasn’t, so. You know.”

“Ok.”

It’s not exactly the most reassuring response. Especially when Matt begins crushing the bottle of water again. Foggy’s not sure he could actually tear it or anything, but he’s also not sure he couldn’t, so he eases it out of Matt’s grip and sets it aside, giving his best friend’s fingers a quick squeeze.

“Look, I went, he was a dick, I will probably never speak to him again. You _cannot_ hold this over me, dude, you went out tonight and got into a fistfight,” Foggy reminds him and gets a slightly more comforting pout in return. “Which reminds me, I still don’t know how the hell you know how to do that, so: truth or dare, Murdock?”

“Um. Dare,” Matt replies hurriedly.

He seems to think he’s made a clever escape. But Foggy has a lot of practice at getting what he wants, and he’s beginning to think he’s spent too long letting the mysteries of Matt’s Tragic Past lie. Especially if they’re gonna lead him to pick physical fights with people.

“Ok, then,” he says. “I _dare_ you to tell me what got you ‘in practice’ to pick fights with rapists in the first place.”

Matt sticks out his tongue, but he does eventually concede to the laws of Truth or Dare and begin to speak.

What unfolds then is a tale that beggars belief. And yet, Matt tells it so quietly and solemnly that Foggy has no choice but to believe it anyway. The more Matt tells, the more he rushes to get it out, a secret he’s never told anyone that’s been desperate to see the light of day. A story about an old man named Stick who was sharp and without pity but who knew what Matt was going through and helped, actually helped in the ways no one else had been able to. Who taught Matt to work past his limitations, taught him how to utilize them, taught him how to fight. Gave him a purpose and a way to move forward, promised him a place of belonging in the group he was part of.

 _Cult, more like_ , Foggy thinks and keeps to himself.

“It was the day before he was going to start teaching me knives,” Matt finishes almost wistfully. “I, um, I had folded him a bracelet out of an ice cream cone wrapper. I wanted... I wanted a father, I guess. But, um, he didn’t want a son. So he left, and never came back.”

Knives? Creepy old child-soldier-cultivating dude had ditched the day before he was going to start teaching Matt how to fight with _knives_. _Knives_? Foggy’s known pretty much from the beginning that Matt’s life has been something of a clusterfuck, but this? This is on an entirely new level that Foggy’s not sure he’s prepared for. Matt seems to sense it somehow, because suddenly a scared look washes over his face. And Foggy cannot— _handle_ that, way more than he can’t handle Matt’s _completely insane_ life story.

“Ok,” he says. “Ok, so that’s... A whole thing. That you probably should be seeing a therapist about. But hey, martial arts is cool, that’s, you know, a thing kids learn sometimes...”

Matt’s hands lift as if he wants to grab hold of Foggy, but he jerks back at the last minute and buries his fingers in the bedsheets instead with a white-knuckled grip.

“You’re scared,” he says, hazel eyes brimming with tears. “Your heartbeat’s so fast, Foggy, you’re lying, it’s not ok, you’re scared and I said too much and you’re going to leave—”

Foggy feels the hot shock of wetness on his face. He’s never been angrier in his life and all he can do is— just, _cry_ about it because he has no way to go back in time and _murder everyone who gave Matt these enormous fucking abandonment issues with a baseball bat_. He’s still sane enough that a stray corner of his brain files the comment about his heartbeat away for later — because, once more, what the absolute _fuck_ , Murdock — but the rest of him is vibrating with the need to protect Matt from the entire world.

“No,” he says, as firmly as he can when his heart’s breaking. “No, Matty, I’m not scared of you. I’m not leaving, ok, I’m right here, you’re my best friend and I’m not leaving. C’mere, buddy, can I hold you? Is it ok if I hold you?”

Matt’s lower lip wobbles, and he dives into Foggy’s arms immediately. They hold each other tightly for what’s probably longer than generally acceptable between platonic male friends, but Matt has the worst backstory in the entire world and standards of behavior set by toxic masculinity are bullshit anyway. Foggy’s gonna hug Matt as long as he needs to be hugged, dammit, and not a second less. For his part, Matt’s gone right back to smushing his face against Foggy’s neck. After a few minutes, there’s the sound of sharp, uneven inhales.

“Are you sniffing me?” asks Foggy, rubbing a hand up and down Matt’s back. “Or just wiping your drippy nose on my shirt?”

There’s a weak little huff of laughter in response.

“Sniffing,” Matt tells him. “You smell good. You always smell good except when you eat Cheetos.”

A stupid giggle slips out of Foggy’s mouth — whether it’s the giddiness of Matt thinking he smells good (which is flattering and kind of hot and also supremely weird) or just the hilarity of Matt’s vendetta against processed cheese dust, Foggy’s not sure.

“I’m not going to stop eating Cheetos, bud, sorry. Not even for you.”

“They’re the worst,” Matt groans, pulling back to grab Foggy by the shoulders and shake him a little. “The worst, Foggy. Like tiny little bombs that explode and leave fallout everywhere, except worse because it sticks to everything and smells like preservatives and salt and fake cheese and death, and the crunch is like nails on a chalkboard except even more gross because it’s mixed with wet, squishy chewing noises and even after they’ve all been eaten they don’t go away. You can never completely get rid of them. Cheeto dust is— is the glitter of the food world.”

“Ok, ok, Mr. Drama Queen,” laughs Foggy when the tirade is finally over, brushing off Matt’s loosened grip on his arms. “I surrender. Cheetos are clearly the ultimate evil in this world.”

“Mmhmm.”

This could be the end of it. There’s been... A lot. Already. Seriously, just so much. Foggy is going to be digesting everything Matt’s revealed tonight for the next forever. Moreover, now that they've switched topics to something ridiculous and mundane, the stress is slipping out of Matt's frame; he looks pleased and sweet and relaxed. Really, Foggy could just let it go at that.

But Foggy Nelson isn’t really a ‘let it lie’ kind of person.

“You said something earlier.”

“Hmm?”

“You said my heartbeat was fast. Will you... Will you tell me how you knew that, Matty?” he asks quietly, making sure to filter out anything in his tone that could be considered even adjacent to accusatory.

He’s focusing real hard on projecting curious, loving, understanding best bro vibes. Matt takes a shaky breath.

“I. I heard it. I can hear...” He laughs, and the sound is unbearably sharp. “Pretty much everything. I told you my hearing’s fantastic. And. And so is everything else. Smell, taste, touch, equilibrium. That, um, that’s what makes fighting easier. I can use the things I sense to piece together what’s going on around me even though I can’t see it.”

“You just, what, you smell a cake and suddenly you know where it is? I mean, how does that even... You said they’re powerful but even then how could you ever piece everything together?”

“It’s, it’s not a perfect system. Everything’s— always moving, always making noise, always shifting,” Matt says, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Incrementally. I know it’s there but it doesn’t stand still, and it’s so loud, so much. It’s like, like the whole world’s on fire.”

Foggy doesn’t really understand, to be honest, but he’s not sure if Matt’s explanations are getting jumbled by his concussion on the way to his mouth, or whether Matt’s way of experiencing the world is just that incomprehensible to people without supersenses. Either way, it’s not worth it to try and press him for metaphors that make more sense right now.

“So,” he says instead, trying for understated and amused. “That’s... A lot. And actually explains so much about you, honestly.”

Including his fierce hatred for cheese dust. And how scary good he is at reading people. Matt huffs out a small laugh.

“Yeah.”

“And you never told anyone? Until now?”

Wetting his lips, Matt nods.

“I, uh... Stick said... Stick said I should never tell anyone. That they’d sell me out or, or leave me,” he admits. “You won’t leave me, right? Foggy? You promised—”

“I won’t leave you, Matt,” replies Foggy, an alien ferocity pumping through his blood. “I won’t. _Fuck_ what Stick said, he’s a creep who beats on kids. I’m not going _anywhere_.”

“Jesus. You’re killing me,” Matt declares, sounding warm and besotted. “I want. I want to kiss you.”

And then he puts a hand on Foggy's shoulder and leans in like he’s going to do it, and Foggy has to do the right thing and gently push him away.

“Matt, Matty, bud, you’re a little impaired right now, I can’t...”

He wants to. Or, he’d want to if he was certain it was really what Matt wanted. But he isn’t, so he doesn’t, because the thought of somehow taking advantage of Matt’s concussed state makes him want to puke, basically. Matt can act all put-together and demure but right underneath that facade he is a huge flirt, so it’s not totally out of the question that he’s, you know, getting his wires crossed because of that knock to the head he took. Not to mention that those supersenses probably mean he’s known this whole time how Foggy feels about him and that could cross a few wires too.

“I told you it’s fine,” Matt complains. “I know what I’m saying. The concussion’s not so bad now — I’m even good to sleep, we just have to set some alarms for a few hours apart to double-check.”

“If you’re good to sleep, then I think you should sleep,” suggests Foggy, to try and avoid the temptation altogether.

“Foggy.”

“It’s late, you’ve been out all night,” Foggy argues reasonably. “You need your rest. Here, I’m setting my phone, ok? We’ll get you up every two hours, and in the morning you’ll be feeling much better.”

Matt sighs.

“Will you at least let me stay?” he asks, patting the bed, and there’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing with that forlorn, sad-little-duckling face.

Not that Foggy would have turned him away anyway. He sets his phone on the desk and settles down into the sheets.

“Yeah, Matty. You can stay.” Foggy takes a breath, holds it for a second — then exhales and takes the leap. “Tell me in the morning, ok? If you still want... If you still think of me like...”

Matt smiles sweetly, wrapping his arms around Foggy and snuggling up to his chest.

“I will.”

Foggy’s not as certain as Matt clearly is, but that’s a problem for the morning.

“Night buddy,” he says quietly, stroking Matt’s hair and closing his eyes before the sight makes his heart explode.

They wake up, groggy and incoherent, every two hours to Foggy’s phone chiming out a supposedly-soothing marimba tune. This cycle repeats four times before Matt sleepily grumbles that it’s fine to stop checking on him, to ‘turn the damn thing off and keep it off’, and then snuggles his face further into Foggy’s chest. And, well, Matt’s the expert here. Also Foggy’s too tired to argue. He kills the alarm, yawns, and is asleep again almost instantly.

* * *

The next time he wakes up it’s late morning and he feels much more well-rested, but it still takes him a few minutes to remember why there’s someone sprawled on the bed next to him.

Ugh. Matt. Or, really, Matt’s _life_. Seriously, what the hell. He’s half-tempted to try and convince himself it was a dream — the supersenses, the ninja training, the head wound, all of it. But the proof is right there next to him on Matt’s sleeping face, the bandage at his temple. He still looks angelic even knowing he could probably kill a dude with his bare hands, the bastard. Foggy sighs, rolling onto his side and trying not to let his gaze get too lovelorn.

“Jeez, Murdock.”

“What’d I do this time?” mumbles Matt, opening his eyes and shifting onto his side as well so they’re face to face.

“Got your head cracked open, did you forget? Speaking of, how are you feeling, buddy?” Foggy asks, acutely aware of literally everything he does and trying not to give off any sort of expectant signals.

“Better.”

Matt doesn’t look any different than normal. He certainly doesn’t seem to be about to start, you know, making out with Foggy’s face or anything. Which is fine. Really. Totally and completely fine, and Foggy’s not at all disappointed about it.

“Cool, that’s. Ok, yeah, that’s good,” he says in a very calm, unbothered voice.

Matt tips his chin up and huffs — a gesture Foggy’s noticed he tends to use where others might use an eye roll.

“Foggy,” he says, slightly irritated.

“What?”

Another huff. Then, with a quick, smooth maneuver, Matt rolls them so his knees are bracketing Foggy’s hips, pinning him to the bed on his back.

“Hey,” Matt says, framing Foggy’s face in his hands, his eyes staring sightlessly and very earnestly at Foggy’s left ear. “This is, this is me letting you know I am sound of mind and body and I still wanna kiss you.”

“Romantic,” replies Foggy as sardonically as he can, but Matt must be able to feel the blushing heat coming off him because instead of pouting he flashes a smug, toothy grin.

“This is the part where you say please,” he prompts with a voice as sweet and smooth as honey. “If you want a kiss.”

“Like you can’t tell.”

“Consent is important, Foggy,” insists Matt with the least-realistic innocent face Foggy has ever seen in his life.

One of his callused thumbs strokes the corner of Foggy’s lips and it’s— calculated, definitely, one hundred percent. But knowing that doesn’t stop it from sending a pleasant shiver down Foggy’s spine.

“Fine,” he rasps, because he’s never been good about patience or denying himself what he wants, even for dignity. “Please?”

This time it’s Matt’s turn to shiver.

“Good,” he breathes. “Perfect.”

And then he ducks down to press their mouths together.


End file.
